The Pull of Home

XIII

Would the child be a girl or a boy? She didn't know which she preferred. With a girl, she could recaptured the love she had formed with her mother when she was a child, yet the thought of having to live through it all again was unbearable. Could she watch another suffer under the weight of not being a man?

***

"It doesn't matter to me. Any child shall be well loved in our home," Emyr promised. And Frances felt a prick of warmth within her- a flourishing of her affection for him that had once been so natural, so constant, but now was somewhat a stranger to her.

***

Her smile no longer meant anything. The ache of doing the household chores was a numb pain in comparison to the steady wash of despair which had poisoned her for the last few months, yet she hid her symptoms. "How was your day?" Emyr would ask when he returned from work. She would smile at him, placing herself in view of the fire so that the light flickered in her eyes where the depth of black emptiness festered.

Then she would place down their meals- her cooking had improved rather a lot- and they would sit in peaceful quiet together, sharing the evening in state of slow languor; time passed by them gently, their touches were soft and their words hushed. Sometimes he would hum as he went about the house. Then she would take his worn clothes and run his bath. As he washed himself next to the fire in the little tin tub, squashed, she would clean his wear and place it next to him to dry. Everything was quiet.

As she washed up, he would come up behind her and kiss her cheek. His hand would move to her stomach, where he laughed that he could feet it moving, living, breathing. Once all her chores were finished, she would join him on the sofa by the fire and they would just sit together, sometimes reading, or sewing or talking. Sometimes doing nothing except breathing in the presence of warmth.

It was domestic bliss, like an illustration in a children's book which explained how a family should be. Everything fitted. Frances had everything she had wanted when she married Emyr; it was what she dreamt would fill the loss of her old life.

However, when Emyr stood up and said he would go to bed, she kissed him goodnight and told him not to wait for her. She wanted to hold onto this evening for a little longer. And he could sense her love in the tender touches she gave him and the words of praise and affection. He would go to bed and sleep, contented, in the warmth despite the wintry glaze.

Alone, a room away from him, she would sit by the dying fire and stare into the flickers of orange sparks which rose up in the air before losing strength and sinking down to the floor, its colour now dead. Thoughts left her mind; it was blank. She was blank. She could feel herself crying, but the stain of tears against her cheek, hot and itchy, was such a familiar sensation that she could barely gather the will to lift her hand to wipe them away.

By the time she found the strength to sit up and go to bed, she could retire with naturalness; there was no need to force a smile or pretend she had a liveliness within her body which had been drained from her, like blood pouring out of a wound.

Any day now, the child would be born and she would be resurrected. She repeated this promise to herself each night before the refuge of sleep came to her. Once she met the little life, looked into its eyes and could hold its hand in her palm, the world would paint itself once more. It could be a new start and everything would return to the fact it was- better, even. Yes, the child would save her.

***

How could she be so lonely? She dreamt of another.

***

The bitter wind paralysed the men as they hoisted up the beams to the stable which had been rattled broken by the night's storm. The wood was damp so the smell of rot weighed in the air. Their fingers clamped together in an attempt to stay warm, so their movements were clumsy and laborious. "Lord, I'm dreamin' of spring," said gruff voices beneath their layers of scratchy woollen scarves.